


Feet to the Ground

by aBarlowRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Boys Kissing, Caretaking, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, Fallen Angels, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Multi, Vacation, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aBarlowRose/pseuds/aBarlowRose
Summary: Landing is the hardest part of flying.





	1. What's Your Poison?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll add tags as I go. This is my first multi-chapter attempt, so bear with me if there are formatting issues. Thanks for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean sends Sam away to heal, and finds himself alone in the bunker. But only for a minute.

It’s months after the fall before Dean gets Sam squared away— a little help from Kevin, a little from Garth, even a little from Crowley, and Sammy is finally back to not dying; but he’s worn out. Dean can see it in his eyes as he stares blankly at a computer screen full of monsters, in the way his wrist moves as he flips page after page in some gigantic index of terrors. Sam puts on a brave face like always, but they both know it’s bullshit; there’s too much to worry about in their lives for real healing to happen.

Dean tries not to burden Sam with details of his search for Cas, his tracking of other angels, his scrabble to avoid the demons out for their blood and King Crowley’s, too, but everything presses together within the pneumatic seal of the bunker. He finds Sam awake at odd hours poring over notes and archival documents, struggling to make sense of the half-picture he has of the outside world, trying desperately to be of use to his big brother who has done so much. Dean closes whatever particular research Sam is working on and guides him back to bed.

One morning Sam wakes up to find Dean leaning in the doorway, hands fiddling with a smallish piece of paper. When Dean hears Sam stir, he puts on a smile.

“Morning Sammy,” he says with forced cheerfulness.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam mutters.  

“Get up, Sam. Big day, today. Charlie will be here in fifteen to pick you up.” Sam looks at Dean in confusion and Dean fixes his mouth open, teeth exposed. "You’re going on vacation, Sammy,“ he explains, lifting the paper, a ticket, in his hand. "You’ve earned some time to put your feet up. Sip a margarita, eye some pretty girls, get out of this cave.”

“A…vacation. What are you talking about, Dean?”

“Look Sam, you need a break. A nice, long, monster-free break. So I’m shipping you off with Charlie to, I don’t know, someplace warm, I think. She picked. Now pack some clothes, she’ll be here soon.” Dean starts to move around the room himself, throwing t-shirts and socks haphazardly into a duffel.

“What about you, Dean? God knows you need a break too.”

“God doesn’t know shit, Sammy,” Dean retorts. "That’s why I’m sticking around— somebody’s got to keep tabs on all those feathery-assed freaks running amok.“ His eyes soften as he looks at Sam. "I’ll be here when you get back, promise.”  

Sam stands up shaking his head and grabs the bag from Dean, trying to look gung-ho as he packs some toiletries and a pair of jeans. "How long?“

"A month, maybe two." Sam shoots him a look. "Charlie’s got it all sorted out.”  

They both know what this is, what Dean is trying to do and how much it hurts Sam to let him, but it is right. Sam really does need a break, or he might just keel over and waste all of Dean’s hard work— and then who would take care of Dean? The squawk of a car horn sounds outside and Sam zips up the duffel bag. He turns to Dean, still with that smile plastered to his face, and gives him a long, hard hug. Dean grips Sam’s shoulders and closes his eyes. When they pull away, he nods a little and walks out of the room; Sam follows him to the door and after a rushed hello to Charlie, they pack up the car and Sam gets in.  

“You’re doing a good thing, Dean,” Charlie says before opening her door. "I’ll take care of him.“

"You’d better,” Dean winks with a smile that Charlie returns sadly. "See you around.“

The bright yellow coupe pulls out onto the road and Dean watches it out of sight before turning back into the dark interior of the bunker. He shuts and bolts the door and leans on it heavily, hands in his pockets, head tilted back, eyes closed. He breathes.

Dean can hear the silence of the massive space in front of him; the hallways branching out into the earth without another living soul. The vastness he can almost handle— he’s been to hell, heaven, and purgatory, after all— but the calm, the absolute static of everything around him, makes him twitch.  

With a sigh, Dean pushes away from the door and moves toward the kitchen. A beer’s what he needs. Or maybe something stronger to brace himself for a night of searching page upon page of probably-useless information. He opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of stout, popping the cap off on the counter edge and letting the bitter, slightly roasted flavor pour down his throat, coating it with reassuring coolness. He closes the door of the refrigerator just in time to hear a knock at the front door.  

Dean shakes his head and puts his beer down, muttering, "You don’t have enough stuff to have forgotten something, bitch.” He slides the lock and pulls the door open. "Sammy, what the hell do you…“ But Dean cannot finish his sentence. 

There is no bumblebee car parked in front. There is no little-giant brother standing on the mat. There is no word about  _shaving cream_  or  _sandals_. Instead there is a man with dark, matted hair and too much stubble. His hands are black with dirt, his shoes muddy, the soles peeling back a bit at the toes. His pants are ripped and bloody along one calf, and his trench-coat, falling around his knees, is marked with grime.  

"Dean, may I come in?” Castiel asks calmly. He stares at him with haggard, earnest eyes, his sunken cheeks raised a little in what might once have passed as a pleased expression. Dean stares back at him unblinkingly, reaching out a hand to touch Cas’s arm, feeling the firm warmth of a living body under his fingers and trying to convince himself that the man in front of him is real.  

“I could use a drink.”  

The lips move at the right time. The eyes open and shut with a normal rhythm. The breath courses in and out of his chest and shifts minutely the arm on which Dean’s hand rests.  

“Dean.”  

And suddenly he believes it. Dean steps over the threshold and pulls Cas to him, gripping his coat in white knuckles, feeling the sharp edges of bones and thinking how skinny he is, but _oh god he’s here._  Dean can hear Castiel saying something about _sorry_  and  _needed some time to figure it out_ , but he’s not listening; he’s shoving air through his lungs and focusing on staying calm, searching for some emptiness, for the void he felt when he closed the door on Sam, for anything except the welling pain-in-his-chest hotness overtaking his body. There is pressure building in his head and as his vision starts to go fuzzy, Dean thinks he might be fainting, or going blind— but then he feels the wet warmth as the tears fall down his cheeks. He watches them soak into the back of Cas’s coat, staining it even darker, and he finds that he is swearing in harsh whispers, violently squeezing the thin man in his embrace. 

Cas pulls back and looks at Dean’s tear-streaked face, his bright, fierce eyes. "I’m sorry,“ he repeats. Dean wipes his face roughly and walks back into the bunker.  

"Close the door,” he calls. "What’s your poison?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those of you reading my other stuff before this. I only just learned the difference between / and &. (☉‿☉✿)
> 
> This is the longest piece I worked on while I was on Tumblr. It felt like it took forever, but I've barely started it. I want to add in side story with Sam and Charlie, too. Taking suggestions for warm-weather monsters/locations!


	2. Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's just hard to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter as I reorient myself to where we're going.

Cas drinks four tall glasses of water before his stomach flips and he wretches over the trash, his body rejecting too much care after so many months of not enough. Dean stands by, watching Cas and bracing him when he sways.  

Castiel straightens and smiles a little, licking his split lips. "I suppose I should know better by now.“

"Where have you been, Cas?” Dean asks, his eyes scanning across every scar, every bruise, every hollow in the other man’s skin. "It’s been hell since the angels fell.“  

"I know, Dean. For everyone.”  

Dean can see in the drawn lines around his eyes an age incongruous with the rest of the face, a weight that has dragged something vital down into a deep recess to be buried; he doesn’t press. Instead, he puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and guides him out of the kitchen and along one of the halls. He shows him to an empty bedroom, and already it is  _Cas’s room_  in his head. He shakes the thought away. Walking to a militarily made bed, he pulls the sheet and rough wool blanket back and Cas climbs in without hesitation, taking off only his shoes and coat before rolling into the covers and immediately falling asleep.

Dean watches the tiny movements in Cas’s shoulders for a moment before walking out of the room. It’s barely midday, but suddenly he’s exhausted, and his bedroom is a shorter walk than the kitchen or the library, anyway— right at the top of the hall. Dean enters and shuts the door, dropping onto the bed facedown, eyes clenched shut. He listens to the throb of his pulse in his ears and tries to force the picture of Castiel hunched over the garbage can out of his head.

He knows he should find some food to cook, should have a hot meal ready for Cas when he wakes up, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. Dean’s chest isn’t working properly again, and he rolls onto his back to relieve some of the weight, but he can feel the tears returning.

 _Goddammit, man,_  he thinks to himself,  _pull yourself together. If anybody sees you like this…_

But of course, there is no one to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a weird feeling to try rewriting on the fly. I like the tone of this piece as it was originally, but it didn't have much substance. I'm working on balancing those things better, without straying too far into melodrama. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas sleeps. Dean dreams. Breakfast is made.

For a week, Cas does nothing but sleep and eat. He uses the bathroom, but doesn’t shower. His hair gets rattier and rattier. He has grown a full-out beard.  

Dean wonders if he should say something, but he lets Castiel be.

He spends much of the time narrowing in on a trail of oddities near Fort Collins. Something is making its way out of the mountains: hikers find animal carcasses singed and mauled; locals complain about deep, rhythmic percussion from some unknown direction; student message boards buzz with questions about rave lights and invites. They'll have to deal with that, he thinks, then corrects himself. _He'll_ have to deal with that. At night, Dean dreams of darkness. Something coils in his gut, something tangled and creeping and cold, and he shivers and clenches his teeth and strains against something unseen. Every morning when he wakes he shakes it off like another bad hangover and gets back to work.

He cleans, he cooks, he reads. He files magic knives, he buys groceries, he tries not to lock the door too loudly when he goes out. He avoids the hallway to the bedrooms whenever possible. He tries not to think about another broken body in another rigid bed. He reminds himself to get a mattress topper next time he's out.

At some point, Dean slips in to change the sheets and grab Cas’s coat. He drops a new pair of boots next to the bed and leaves another set of clothes— boxers, socks, a light cotton shirt in grey, and some dark lounge pants— before putting the dirty things into the washer. There is extra clothing in the dresser, of course, but Dean thinks maybe Cas needs a reminder that they might be for him.

The next morning, Dean wakes to the smell of bacon. He finds Castiel in the kitchen, showered, clean-shaven, and dressed in the fresh clothes, looking pleased with himself.

“Breakfast,” he grins.

As he bustles around the room putting together two plates of toast, eggs over easy, bacon, orange rounds, Dean sits at the table to watch. He notes that the slump has gone out of Cas’s spine a bit, but his cheeks, clean-shaven though they may be, still have the shade of hollowness. Cas moves confidently, however, and Dean observes that at least his strength is returning.

A plate is shoved in front of Dean, and Cas sits down opposite, digging into his meal with zealous appetite. He prattles on about all the places he walked and the people he saw and the angels of whose location he thinks he knows, but Dean can tell that Cas is avoiding his eyes, and he’s not really listening himself. He makes no reply when Castiel looks up at his plate and stares for a moment before asking if he wants something different, the smile on his face faltering.

“Maybe some oatmeal, Dean? Or an omelet?”

Dean gazes at Cas calmly, watching in the silence as his eyelids twitch and his eyes dart from Dean’s untouched plate to the stove, then to the door behind Dean and back again. Cas shifts uncomfortably and takes another bite of his eggs. He swallows hard, his hands braced on the table.

“There’s still some cereal in the cupboard,” he tries again, but he trails off, and Dean can see that that weight has not abated.    

“You should have called,” he says very softly, but Castiel still winces. Dean leans forward on the table, moving his plate to the side and staring intently at the downturned eyes across from him. "Look, Cas, dude, I’m not angry, it’s just….“ A breath. "You should have called.”

Every muscle in Castiel’s body is rigid, and when Dean puts his hand out to grasp his forearm, Cas flinches beneath the touch; Dean doesn’t pull away.  

“Cas,” he murmurs, eyes set on the other man’s face. "Castiel. Look at me.“

Slowly, Cas turns his eyes up to meet Dean’s. There are no tears in them, but the empty, screaming dryness Dean sees is worse; his grip tightens.

"I’m damned glad you’re here. You know that, right?”

Cas looks away but Dean’s hand prevents him from standing; Dean doesn’t release Castiel even as the minutes drag on— until finally, he feels the tension easing under his fingers and Cas nods his head, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Dean studies the lines of his face for a moment before letting go his hold on Cas’s arm and leaning back in the chair. As Cas moves quickly to the door, Dean picks up a piece of toast and takes a wide bite.

There is a pause, the sound of a sigh and a turn. "Thank you, Dean,“ he hears from the entry to the hall. And then Cas’s quiet footsteps quickly fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cas. It's hard enough not being omnipotent anymore, but now there are feelings— the tiny, specific, overwhelmingly human kind.


	4. You're Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when there's a storm, all you can do is press your hand to the glass and feel the vibrations.

Cas doesn’t leave his room again the rest of the day, neither to eat nor to stretch his legs nor to talk. Dean comes and goes, stopping occasionally at the door, the hallway back on limits, sometimes hearing the sound of running water or a rhythmic thump like someone bouncing a ball. Most times, though, there is the echoing of silence. It presses back against Dean’s ears like a pane of glass, smooth and muffled and cold; he fears that if he leans too hard, he will break it.

In the evening, Dean makes dinner for two, stir-fry with chicken, but Cas doesn’t show, and he eats alone, flipping through a weapons catalogue and sipping on a beer.

By eleven, his eyes filmy and his back protesting the hardwood chair, Dean stands and clears the last of his dishes before switching off the kitchen light and walking the short distance down the corridor to his bedroom. He stands at the door listening for movement farther down the hall, but nothing greets his ears except the click and hum of the refrigerator starting a cooling cycle.

Dean closes his door behind him without turning on the lights. He kicks off his boots and strips to his boxers before crawling into bed, his hand coming to rest familiarly on the pistol beneath his pillow. He shuts his eyes and begins to drift, not sleeping, exactly, but receding deeper and deeper into his mind, past clambering memories like filing cabinets shaken by ghosts.

It might be hours, it might be minutes, but at some point a sound interrupts the dark blankness of Dean’s reverie. His fingers instinctively clutch around the grip of the gun, and his eyes and ears strive for any hint of encroaching danger. The sound comes again, loud against the silence but actually rather small; Dean realizes it is the sound of bare feet scuffing on wood.

The footsteps come to a stop outside Dean’s door. He can hear them shift about and then the slow, metallic turn of the door handle. In the open doorway stands a figure, barely discernible between the dark of the hall and the dark of the room, but Dean’s hand relaxes its hold on the gun. It may have been months, but he knows how Cas moves.

Dean remains still and silent as Cas slips through the doorway and closes it again gently. Cas presses his back against the wood for a moment and must be straining his eyes around the room, although Dean cannot see for sure. Eventually, Cas moves cautiously to the middle of the floor and sits. Dean hears him cross his legs and listens as Cas’s breath evens and slows until he might be sleeping if he weren’t sitting upright.

Dean knows that he should go back to sleep, that Cas is just watching over him like always, that he’ll be gone in the morning anyway—as the thought strikes him, Dean feels something unpleasant in his throat. He pulls himself upright in bed, noting the increase of breath from somewhere off to his right. He stands and follows the sound methodically, eyes shut, feet padding softly toward the sound of other life in the room.

As the breathing gets louder (and it’s not just getting closer), Dean opens his eyes, staring at the darkness. He can just make out the seated shape of a body, and he gently lowers himself to sit facing Cas.

For a few minutes, there is no sound but their breathing. Then, “I woke you.”

“No. I wasn’t really asleep.”

“You sounded asleep.”

“I was…” Dean searches for the right word. “Thinking.”

“Oh,” Cas replies, and Dean can hear a disturbing melancholy in his voice. There is silence again, but Dean can't sit in it.

“What are you doing here, Cas? I don’t need babysitting. Especially not when you’re in the state you’re in.”

“I do not consider you a baby, Dean,” Cas answers softly.

“Then why are you creeping around my room in the middle of the night?”

“I— I wanted to….” Dean can hear Cas struggling to choose the right words. “You’re disappointed in me,” he manages, and Dean’s jaw clenches.

“I’m not,” he whispers. “I promised, Cas.”

“You promised you weren’t angry, Dean, and I can handle anger, anyway. The wrath of heaven and all that nonsense. But you never promised I had not let you down. You never promised I had not failed you again.” Cas’s voice is rising, the glass pane Dean had touched earlier vibrating around his head. “You never promised I had not disappointed you, had not missed my chance to prove myself, had not made.” His voice breaks and softens. “A complete fool of myself.”

The glass rattles fearfully against Dean’s ear and he is afraid to move, but he reaches out— and the glass recedes. Dean’s fingers, resting on Castiel’s thigh, could almost shimmer through the darkness; they feel dipped in translucence. Cas is still seething, but as Dean holds his hand to Cas’s leg, he feels the hysteria disappear as shaking overtakes Cas’s body.

“I’m sorry,” Cas mumbles. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to sit here with you. I wanted to have you nearby. I wanted to— I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The words babble out of Cas’s mouth and Dean can feel his body warring in front of him, rocking and swaying and shaking. The leg on which his hand rests is hot, the muscles twitching under his palm, arguing amongst themselves. He suddenly needs there to be calm.

Without thinking, Dean leans over and presses his lips to the corner of Cas’s mouth. In his mind, it seems like a reassurance, something he must have seen his mother do, but as his nose brushes the skin under Cas’s right eye, it feels wrong. He doesn’t want to reassure Cas. He wants to convince him, to persuade him, to unequivocally  _prove_  to him… something.

Dean can’t remember what, because Cas’s mouth is chapped but surprisingly yielding, and his skin smells like citrus and cloves, and his cheek is slightly rough with a five o’clock (in the morning) shadow. As one hand comes up to rest on Castiel’s cheek, Dean registers that the movement under the other has ceased. Cas is still.

Dean waits for the recoil—wishing desperately that he could see Cas’s eyes—but it doesn’t come. He can feel the tension in Cas’s face, the straining, and he thinks,  _maybe—_

Dean leans forward again, forgetting about reassurance, and  _yes_ , the pressure against his palm turns to momentum and Cas meets Dean’s lips with his own, a hand coming up to hold the back of Dean’s head. The kiss is sloppy; it’s too dark and they’re both too tired, and they're both too impatient. Cas’s hand digs into Dean’s hair and Dean’s fingers clutch the fabric on Cas’s leg. Their lips are hard against each other; their breath comes fast and short through their noses and when they pull away panting, their lips most certainly glaring red in the dark, their hands remain.

Cas is the first to remove his hand, his fingers trailing though Dean’s hair, grazing his ear, brushing along his jaw before dropping back into his own lap. Dean can feel him stirring. He gives a hard, long squeeze to Cas’s thigh.

“I promise,” he whispers again, fiercely. “I promise.”

He stands, moving back toward the form of his bed, listening to the sound of the door clicking back into place and footsteps down the hall. Another click, and all is quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darkness lends us all a little courage. Leave it to Dean Winchester to mix up two kinds of caring. He's figuring it out.
> 
> But KISSES, Chuck bless.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
